


hold back the river

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa, Fluff, set between season three and four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: Prompt: Fitzsimmons going to the cottage in Perthshire for the holidays.





	hold back the river

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

 

The snow falls down silently and steadily covering the city with a layer of white that keeps getting thicker and adds up to the snow that has fallen halfway throughout the week. It gathers on rooftops, cars, and roads, evening out heaps and piles at the sides of all roads and inside gardens; children's snowmen have their plastic hats - made of black basins, old and long unused Tupperware, and vases - getting inches taller, their original colour fading, and a thin veil covers their carrot noses - white on orange and brown. Everything feels and appears motionless, still, asleep and the air has that typical yellow glow that comes with snow and makes the evening appear brighter than what a dark sky may suggest. The streetlamps, one and a half meters between one and the other, placed  at each side of the road at one extreme of the sidewalks, cast a bright white light and the snowflakes fall in the midst of them like dark shadows. In the morning when the snow will have long stopped, the frozen surfaces will glisten, glitter, and shimmer in the bright sunlight making it appear brighter and giving the blue sky a more vivid colour - all clouds of the previous day gone. Frost on windows, covering the clean glass panels and impeding a neat and proper view of the outside, hidden by curtains; icicles hanging from gutters and windowsills - transparent stalactites in the morning sun.

There's only one garden down the road on the left, part of a small semi-detached house, where the snow has been walked on and the footprints are yet to be covered. There's heaps and deep strips that start from there, the surface ruined and completely uneven - holes where butts and hands have touched the surface. Light filters through the drawn white curtains, soft and warm, and there's a wreath hanging in the middle of the door, red ribbons and small pine cones on it as decoration; it covers the small glass panels only partially and is fixed skilfully above the door's peephole. Inside, the corridor is tidy and two coats hang from the hanger next to the door and the black umbrella stand. Two pairs of winter boots, one smaller in size than the other, stand under the radiator - the brown fabric darker where residual water from the snow resides - and on top of it humid gloves and hats.

A staircase leading upstairs, old and consumed, wooden steps that are carved by time and trolleys dragged to the second floor, lighter than the rest of the surface. A corridor right next to that; it leads to the dining room and kitchen, one large area that smells of warm marmalade and melted sugar - a sweet smell that comes from the fresh baked biscuits cooling off next to the cooker, that mixes with the more poignant one of warmed up cheese covered bread and pastry as Fitz pulls everything out of the oven. The latter is a holiday gift slash welcome present slash cordiality from their neighbour, an old lady he hasn't seen in years and of whom he had vague memories of. A friend of his mother's maiden aunt, whom the house belonged to at the time, whose features and name he had not quite forgotten and would have described, until the previous day, by nothing but vivid images and sensations: the smell of hot chocolate and the one of coffee, biscuits placed on a plate, wool under his fingertips, his mother's voice, two pairs of attentive eyes, faces looking at him from the window, as he played with snow and laughed - carefree.

"Pass me the potholder, will you?" he asks Jemma as he stands up, smiling as he watches her move towards him.

"There you go," she pauses. "Are you sure you don't need any more help? With anything? And don't say I'm your guest 'cause that's not true."

Jemma hands him the piece of blue cloth and their hands meet - fingers curl at the light contact and they smile brightly, almost grin at one another, as skin rests on skin. Soft, light and precious; it's simple, welcomed, and could go unnoticed. Private, Fitz thinks, it's private, intimate and joyful. Theirs, for it's part of a routine carefully established that they bring with them despite being far away from s.h.i.e.l.d. where it happens that their paths do not cross for the entire working day - the moments for themselves sporadic and sometimes rare. Sometimes, in hectic times when they don't get the chance to see each other, all there is is a quick brush of their hands and fingers that comes as a reassurance and makes him feel as if the time of the universe has a stop at such a feeble and insignificant moment that lasts no longer than a couple of seconds. When did it start? Fitz can't tell anymore or, rather, cannot really be sure for memories of the earlier days of their friendship are blurry and dreamlike, lacking detail. But the restoration of their friendship has no doubt increased its importance - it was Jemma there in the lab with him, talking to him, working with him, spending time with him - just as much as her return from Maveth has. It's a gentle reminder that they are both there - safe, alive, and on earth - as they should be.

"I'm alright, we're almost done here anyway," he replies, reluctantly letting go of her hand and opening the oven - a great deal of steam meeting his face, humidity resting on his skin and the warmth reddening his cheeks ever so slightly. "At this point there's just to put these on the table."

"They smell amazing."

"Always did, really. Makes up for the fact that we didn't find a proper cottage, doesn't it?"

"It does, though I'd be happy anywhere as long as we get our well deserved break from work. Together. It was about time, wasn't it?"

"Hard to object that."

Fitz smirks and they both laugh. It bubbles up at the back of their throats and comes out inhibited and crystal clear, filling the space around them and adding up to the noise coming from the television standing in a distant corner - the weather forecast announcing possible snow storms for the upcoming week. They turn their heads to the side, looking outside the window, and for a moment their minds turn to friends left behind and to the conversation held months earlier in front of the base's window. It plays in all its details from the streaks of pink and yellow in the early morning sky, as darkness faded away and the sun rose, to the feeling of the rough surface of the corridor's bricks against his shoulder; that confession of feelings held back for such a long time and only ever spoken into a recording file - memory and battery slowly running out - and never in as many words as _I love you_ but through dreams and a willingness and wish to explore a possibility of a future for them.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead then."

"How was it when you came here as a kid?"

"Best time of the year, really. Looking back at it all, at the years leading up to my tenth birthday, the days spent here with my mom were a well deserved break for both of us - better and more wanted than any festivity. I didn't even mind having to wake up at an indecent hour to get into the car, I just-  I just wanted to get out of there. Idyllic, I'd say, I used to wish for those days never to end." He pauses. "And then, at last, my father walked out and left us and it was different. Not bad different, just- different: there was no dread at the thought of having to leave."

When his mother suggested for him and Jemma to go there, saving themselves the late search for a cottage and some of their budget money, she'd been needlessly hesitant, afraid that somehow memories would come back once he'd walk in. Try as they might, they would never forget and memories are a tricky matter, easily triggered and not as easily dismissed; but of one thing Fitz is sure now as he was with his mother on the other side of the phone - through the years, this house was the only place Alistair Fitz would not reach them. For whatever reason. It's untouched and stainless of any bad memory associated with his father.

"My mother's aunt used to come and visit, along with my grandparents, fretting too much and jokingly reproaching everyone. There were arguments and stress, problems running deep, but it looked perfect and I remember thinking that that was like family was supposed to be. Quite like what we have it at s.h.i.e.l.d., really."

With the teasing, the laughter, the stubbornness and the occasional rows - personalities clashing together and voices rising, echoing down the corridors. The selfish acts and the unexplainable ones that are constantly questioned, an overall inability to see the other's objective and understand their motives. He thinks of Daisy, guilt ridden, sneaking away and hiding from them - no news or reassurance - and their attempt to track her down, his anger at her lack of explanation, at her unwillingness to share her grief or let them stand close to her. It's a thought that doesn't leave him, they all carry more luggage than the porter's at King's Cross, they could have found a solution, a way to stretch out a hand and for Daisy to take it. They all have wounds that weep, but if there's one thing he's learned in his childhood and during the time at s.h.i.e.l.d. is that sometimes it's more effective to reach out than isolating oneself in ones private sorrow.

"Yeah." Jemma agrees. "Sounds like you always had a great time back then."

"I did, and I'm having a great time now."

"Couldn't be otherwise, really, given that I'm the one who's planned this vacation." She smirks, teasingly. "And it's a truth universally acknowledged that I excel at preparations."

"I like it here," he says. "Quite a lot. Spending time with you-"

"Worrying about not making it to Tesco in this weather rather than the odds of being swept off this planet by an ancient monolith."

"That too."

That and the domesticity that feels like a glimpse to a possible future. They have something back at s.h.i.e.l.d., but this is more and makes Fitz feel as if he and Jemma are finally being the masters of their own lives. Comfort and joy comes from knowing that neither of them is in immediate danger even though that doesn't really end nightmares and trauma, and he feels for the first time in forever as if they are allowed to just be. Perhaps it's an illusion because it's all new, because they are on vacation and things appear different as they normally do, but life seems slowed down and less hectic - they have a fixed routine here, can stay in bed a moment longer, eat meals alone and fall asleep on the sofa if they feel like it without having anyone walking in on them. And if he were to choose, if this state of things is even a little part what a future with Jemma is, then he has no doubts on what he wants.

"What?" she asks, grabbing the remote and muting the television, looking at him inquisitively.

"What is what?"

"You just went silent and look pensive, so what is it?"

"Do you think that things are moving too fast?" He pauses, hands moving in small circular movements before pointing at them both - back and forth, in slow gestures. "Between us?"

"I thought we agreed not to waste any more time."

That they did, but in a greater scheme of things it doesn't mean much at all, because this is a step further and goes beyond what they have. It's different and it scares him a little, that there's always the chance for them to be left behind. He's spent months and weeks being afraid of his feelings for Jemma, thought to have just imagined them - the line between friendship and love blurred - only to find them still there the next day, and the next, and the next. Suppose it changed everything so utterly and completely? Suppose it all blew up? Suppose that no matter their choices it all was to end in heartbreak, and overall inability to look at the other and one of them leaving? Those same question haunt him now, no matter how right it all feels. Things are going smoothly and are steady, there's not much uncertainty at all, but the idea of them settling down looks distant and is a big step and the feeling that comes with it brings him back years and years to a distant past that doesn't quite look like theirs anymore - a foreign country, half blossomed feelings, and a raising awareness that he loved her.

"Fitz-" Jemma starts to say, moving her hands towards his. The tablecloth crumples at the movement, a game of shadows on the red surface, and her knife touches her plate with a soft cling as the silver touches the porcelain.

It's an idea that has been fixed in his mind for months now. Suppose he and Jemma were to move in together? Suppose they were to leave s.h.i.e.l.d for good? The environment makes their lives a mess and although neither their job nor the cosmos are responsible for their problems, it does nothing against it. They've had their happy ending, they are alive, together, and in love, but there's so much more in life, so much more for them that at times this looks like an infinitely small part of it all, of what things could be. A happy ending and yet what lies ahead of them, he wonders? What if they reach the limits and what are those? How much can they bare? He's been thinking about leaving and if not leaving just cut out some time alone, private, away, but he doesn't want to do it alone, he wants to do it with Jemma. Months into their relationship it seems early to ask, but the words, especially now, are on the tip of his tongue, ready to come out.

"This." He starts. "This is what I want. Or would like to have if things between us work out."

They are allowed to just be and go on with their lives, it's both reassuring and comforting. Fitz is tempted to add _one day_ , but can't really bring himself to do so and the words bear too many meanings to somehow enclose them. He doesn't mean tomorrow, but neither does he mean years into the future - when they are both ready, it's implicit.

He studies her reaction attentively and with a great deal of curiosity, afraid to have crossed some invisible lines, and takes a bite off the mince pie sitting on his plate - an explosion of flavours in his mouth that leaves a pleasant and strong after taste even after having been washed down by a gulp of fresh water. If he were to say _forget about it_ , they could brush it off as a joke and never mention it again despite feelings and wishes still being there at the end of the day - Fitz doesn't want it, not really, for it wouldn't change nothing and indecisiveness would win over him one more time and he won't let it happen.

"You mean moving in together?" Jemma asks with hesitance as if not quite sure about Fitz's objective.

"That and other things, but moving in together is the first step."

For a moment there's silence, but for the buzzing of the oven, and they look at each other with neutral faces, waiting for the other to speak first. Steam raises from the serving plate placed in front of them, swirling and dancing in the air before fading away, the intricate patterns slowly disappearing. Then, little by little, Jemma's face cracks and her smile transforms into laughter - humorous, loud, relieved.

"What?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing the other day, whether you wanted to start looking for a place that is just ours once we go back. And it's not like I don't like sharing a room with you at the base, with everything that's been going on I rather like it, but at the same time I don't want our lives to stand still and for us to wait for better times, for many things really. I- I want to go on with our lives like millions of people which doesn't mean caring less about the state of things." She stops. "Sometimes I feel like I need to completely cut out work and everything related to it, and you can't do that back at the base, not really."

"No."

"But I want this, very much so, being here just made me even more sure."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jemma nods.

She squeezes his hand, warm skin resting on warm skin, and brushes her thumb over his without thinking about her actions too much and as she tilts her head to the side ever so slightly - her pony tail moving, strains of her now visible over her shoulder. In the silence, with everything standing still, he feels like he has never loved her more or more ardently than in that moment and wishes for the moment to last forever - out of time and space.

The words to _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ come in muffled from outside, but they don't pay attention to them too caught up in their private moment to notice. Then and there nothing can disturb them or distract them; they are so high on their own happiness, that the inside of the semi detached house, hidden by half closed curtains that hide both Fitz and Simmons but are enough to reveal the soft lights and the outlines of furniture, appears like a different world than the one outside. Here, a small group of carol singers makes their way down the street ruining the even snow surface, headed to the Union for dinner and a drink before the holidays. They sing harmoniously as they walk all bundled up in their winter clothes, scarves almost covering their mouths. Students from the local university headed towards the union, with cheeks reddened because of the cold and hands stuffed into their coats' pockets. Their voices are steady and echo softly down the empty and deserted streets, they are the only people outside but their singing, if heard, brings up memories.

Tidings of comfort and joy. The year to come is the year of healing and getting on despite all that has happened as much as it is a year of taking big steps and not being afraid of them. It's the year of leaping with courage and without looking back and over think it. They are going to start their lives together, ease into change and not fight it, of being happy, alive, and not wanting to be anywhere else with anybody else. They feel bold, invincible, and with the world at their feet.

Jemma whispers an _I love you_ before putting a bite of roasted potato into her mouth, savouring it. If they weren't sitting, they would swagger at the promise of a lifetime - a well deserved one after all the trials and tribulations of the past three years. They've taken the long road to get there: every mistake, every word, has helped them grow into their own person and has showed them things they'd have never imagined otherwise. They know each other now, even those parts of them that once were buried under all their tiptoeing, whispering, murmuring and agreeing and they are no longer frightened of disagreeing. Distinct from each other, less polite, less afraid, less timorous and less constrained - being that doesn't exclude the tightness and importance of their relationship; this too they've learned. The ride, it turns out, was completely worth it.

Perhaps the cosmos doesn't care about them and sometimes the universe just fails to be a fairy tale, but then and there, with a silent and snow covered city surrounding them, sitting in a warm and welcoming dining room that smells of freshly baked biscuits, the future has never looked brighter.

 


End file.
